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The creek behind the grocery store
keeps swallowing the same moon.

I saw it last night,
floating in pieces between beer cans
and wet leaves,
like someone trying to mail a silver letter
without an address.

You were asleep with one hand
inside your shirt,
like you were holding your own heart still.

The refrigerator hummed,
a little animal prayer.

Outside,
the trees bent down to listen to the highway,
all those cars dragging their bright loneliness
west.

Sometimes I think love is just noticing
the way a spider repairs its web
after rain,
without asking why it broke.

This morning,
your hair smelled like cold air
and woodsmoke.

I wanted to tell you
the earth is trying so hard
to be forgiven,
but instead I asked
if you wanted coffee.

And you said, “Only if we drink it slowly.”